


Flagnotes

by Mithrigil



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dom/sub/sub, Forgiveness, M/M, Pirates, Roleplay, Threesome, harebrained schemes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mitsunari is on the mend, and Motochika’s proud of that. But he’s still got some issues to let out, and Motochika wouldn’t be Motochika if he didn’t have just the right tools to fix that rig...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flagnotes

There are a great many advantages to being owed the debt of Ishida Mitsunari. Shikoku’s accounts have never been better kept, the captains in the Chosokabe fleet have nothing to complain about when all their plunder gets divided fairly to the nearest chipped zenny, and Motochika has discovered fifteen new places to fall asleep on deck thanks to Mitsunari passing out exhausted every sixty hours or so. Also, the sex is good, but then the sex has always been good, and Motochika’s not about to value Mitsunari’s violent inexperience over the dozens of other pleasures in life.

But there’s something to be said about someone who takes pleasure--unabashed pleasure--in doing exactly what you tell him to do, and doing it well. Motochika’s boots have never been better kept either. And he sorted out the gear box. No one else has sorted out Motochika’s gear box and survived.

“Did he really,” Ieyasu says.

“Why would I lie?” Motochika leans back, picks up another shrimp with his chopsticks, dunks it in the sauce. “It’s been good for him. I admit I thought he was forcing himself at first, but we’ve sorted that out as well. He considers himself in my debt, but he’s far from a slave. Honestly, I don’t think he knows what to do with himself, and I’m glad to help with that.”

Ieyasu smiles, folds his hands around the bowl. “That certainly sounds like Mitsunari. I admit I’ve always been worried about that with him.”

“Well, no one alive knows him better.”

“I truly wish that,” Ieyasu says. “But for all that I know him, there’s so little I understand.”

Now, Motochika’s known Ieyasu for years, since he first kidnapped sunny little Takechiyo years ago. And that brash boy has grown up into one of Motochika’s best friends, a brother-in-arms if he ever knew one, and Ieyasu being Ieyasu he cherishes that bond like his life depends on it. So Motochika definitely knows what it means for Ieyasu to hide his regrets behind a smile, and he could tick off the cues like dance steps: a flicker of a glance sideways, a twitch in his hands, the tone of his voice lowered and slightly breathless. Ieyasu wants something, and hates asking for what he wants. Really, he and Mitsunari are made for each other, the lunkheads.

...yes. This is a brilliant idea.

***

“A surprise,” Motochika repeats.

“I don’t understand why you insist on surprising me, Lord Motochika.” But of course Mitsunari follows him, and doesn’t even ask what kind of surprise it is. Or whether it matters that it’s a surprise. No, Mitsunari just does whatever Motochika tells him to do, to the point where Motochika has to honestly wonder if there’s a self in there. Or if there ever was one.

Even if this doesn’t work, it’ll be good to see what Mitsunari does with something he wants and won’t ask for.

“Because it’s my ship,” Motochika says, “and a good surprise gets your blood going, wouldn’t you say?”

He swings the door to the hold open, and takes a moment to admire his handiwork.

Tying Ieyasu up takes much more rope than it used to. About four times as much, Motochika would say: a double-length to hold down Ieyasu’s powerful arms and some elaborate chest-work, and another length each to hold his legs apart. He’s not gagged--not yet, anyway--and if he were it would be a shame, the way he’s gaping.

“Mitsunari,” he says, like he’s already hard--and sure enough, there’s some fun in his fundoshi.

Mitsunari stares.

All right. Motochika braces for the inevitable explosion, which comes right on schedule: all Ieyasu has to do is smile, and there Mitsunari goes, frothing through his teeth. “What is the meaning of this?!”

“You know that thing we do where you follow my orders?” Motochika says, all according to plan. “This son-of-a-bitch wants to atone for something. I told him words weren’t enough. That’s where you come in.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Fuck him, Mitsunari. Give him a rough time and then a good one. Show him how we treat anyone who wants to prove he’s one of mine.”

For a moment, Mitsunari looks like a sail bleaching on a line, like what little color there is in him has been wrung out completely. He can’t seem to focus on Motochika, or Ieyasu, or, strangely enough, his hands. But Motochika’s seen enough of this before, and knows what to do: he stands close to Mitsunari and blocks Ieyasu out of sight for a moment, lets his size and his presence reassure Mitsunari that someone knows what’s what even if he doesn’t. “You can turn this down,” he says. “You always can, and I won’t think any less of you for it. You know that.”

It works. Mitsunari shuts his eyes, and even if the edge of anger hasn’t left his voice, he at least has a focus now. “Why would you want something like this?”

“He’s my friend,” Motochika says, “and you hate him. He forgave me for my anger and I’d say we’re on pretty equal footing now. I want the same for you, Mitsunari. You don’t have to forgive him. I don’t think he’s asking for that. But I want to know that you could, if you both wanted to.”

“And what does that have to do with defiling him?”

“I think he’s pretty defiled already,” Motochika laughs. “But it’s something you both want. Don’t think I haven’t heard you when you’re throwing one off. Fuck him, but don’t harm him. I think that’s a pretty good proof that you’re part of my crew, isn’t it?” He stands aside, lets Mitsunari get a look at Ieyasu again, who isn’t so much straining against the ropes as he is _squirming_ in them (and oh, does that bring back memories), and lets Mitsunari work it out.

“You want me to do this,” Mitsunari says, low like a curse.

It isn’t a question, but Motochika answers anyway. “Yes.”

Mitsunari nods and accepts that. “You trust me with him.”

“I do. But I’m staying so I can keep giving you orders and stop you if you go too far.” And to be frank, in a situation like this, he thinks Ieyasu’s more likely to not say no when he means it than Mitsunari is to go overboard. Motochika’s seen how Ieyasu can get about putting the bond before the body, so to speak. So insurance and a good show: why not stick around?

The ship rocks beneath them. Ieyasu breathes, haltingly, and the ropes stretch across his chest, and Mitsunari hisses through his teeth. Motochika can guess what he’s feeling: Mitsunari never hides that.

So when Mitsunari goes for his belt, and hands his sword to Motochika, Motochika knows exactly what it means. _I don’t trust myself, but I trust you._

Motochika grins, and carries the sword over to a nearby barrel, which he sits on, in full view of the proceedings. “Then shall we get st--”

Mitsunari has already rammed his heel into Ieyasu’s groin. Good thing Ieyasu’s always gone for that. Moaning like that should be illegal.

“--started,” Motochika finishes, settling in for a show. “All right. Mitsunari, rough him up a bit. This stops if I see blood. Do you understand?”

His words pry Mitsunari out of whatever mode he was locked into, and he stops. “Yes, Lord Motochika,” he says, and clutches the ropes over Ieyasu’s sternum, drags him up off his knees. He still has to bend to take it out on Ieyasu’s neck.

Mitsunari’s been a savage kisser from the start, but this is savage even for Mitsunari, more like a wolf or a shark taking a chunk out of its prey. Ieyasu writhes and shudders but Motochika wouldn’t call it struggling, and that’s one of the hottest things Motochika’s seen all year so he lets it keep going for a while. Ieyasu slips out of Mitsunari’s grip and thuds to the deck, and Mitsunari kneels too, keeps holding on and tearing at him, and there, that’s one of the reasons Ieyasu isn’t gagged. He never says Motochika’s name like he says Mitsunari’s. Motochika definitely doesn’t mind.

But he knows that Mitsunari, if given the chance, chooses to go as fast as possible. Normally, that’s not a bad thing. Tonight, they both need time.

“Slow down,” Motochika says. It’s the same tone he’s used with Mitsunari before, so he’s not surprised when Mitsunari stalls and pulls back. “Lick him like you lick my boots.”

Mitsunari seethes, and glares down at Ieyasu, but not up at Motochika. The order’s accepted, then. Good.

True to obedience, Mitsunari hasn’t drawn blood on Ieyasu’s throat, at least not yet. That doesn’t mean it isn’t red as a ripe pomegranate, so flushed that Motochika almost can’t see Mitsunari’s tongue against it. But he shows Ieyasu’s skin the same respect he shows anything he shines of Motochika’s, slow and thorough. Ieyasu doesn’t look any less tense, not with his muscles swelling against the ropes and his fundoshi straining like it can’t keep his cock in.

Ha. There’s no better reminder for Motochika that he’s in on this too. He loosens his pants, gives himself something to reach for.

“Even slower,” he tells Mitsunari, and demonstrates just how slow with how he trails his fingers on his cock. “And once you’ve done his neck, turn him around and start on his hands.”

They both choke: Ieyasu on Mitsunari’s name, Mitsunari on the breath and concentration it takes for him to slow down. But he listens, and Ieyasu turns up his throat like he knows how much more there is to offer, and Mitsunari’s tongue trails up the cords of muscle and juts of bone in his neck. Motochika tells him “Circle every bone,” and he does.

Motochika tightens his fist around his cock, and pays close attention to Mitsunari’s hands. His nails are leaving livid crescents on Ieyasu’s chest and upper arm, but no blood, just sweat and strain. The ropes hold fast no matter how Mitsunari yanks them, but he’s going as slow as Motochika could possibly ask for. He pulls back from the nape of Ieyasu’s neck, looks Motochika in the eye and asks, “His hands?”

“His hands,” Motochika repeats. “Blow his fingers.”

The way Ieyasu is tied, wrists together behind his back, leaves both his hands free. Motochika made sure of that--he knows Ieyasu has a direct palm-to-cock current somewhere in his nerves--and Mitsunari’s about to discover it. Mitsunari wrenches Ieyasu around and shoves his face to the floor, then kneels behind him and goes to work. Motochika’s watched Mitsunari do some pretty hot things these past few months (that night he tested out the vibrating plugs comes to mind), but there’s nothing like seeing him struggling to follow orders to keep it slow while Ieyasu rakes his restrained fingers through Mitsunari’s hair.

Mitsunari’s teeth flash around Ieyasu’s finger, but he doesn’t bite, and looks at Motochika as if to ask _am I doing well?_

So Motochika does what Mitsunari needs: smiles, and shows him just how hard and red he is, and says it plain. “Yeah. You’ve got a handle on this, Mitsunari. Keep going.”

He wastes no time, sucks Ieyasu’s fingers so hard his cheeks hollow. Ieyasu groans into the floorboards, and if his breath is anything to go on his lips haven’t closed since this started and sure won’t close now. He catches Motochika’s eye just as Mitsunari pulls back and switches fingers and Motochika thinks that mouth deserves something to be open around. Not yet, but hell yes. Watching is too good, and Mitsunari needs orders, and it’s not like Ieyasu isn’t getting exactly what he wants.

Hm. Maybe Motochika should test that. After all, this is already a grand experiment. There are plenty more tests to run.

Motochika stretches out and gives his cock two long, lazy strokes, makes sure the both of them can see. “Mitsunari,” he says, “I’ll show you how slow to go. Watch my hand.”

The raw heat in Mitsunari’s eyes informs Motochika that this is the best idea he’s ever had.

Mitsunari bobs his head in time with Motochika’s slow pulls, twists his tongue like Motochika’s thumb. Motochika speeds up for two strokes, and Mitsunari takes Ieyasu’s fingers impossibly deep, impossibly fast. From the look of things, it’s driving Ieyasu insane, and the way he’s rocking back (what little he can), makes it all too clear where he needs attention. Well damn, it’s been a long time since Motochika’s seen Ieyasu desperate. It’s as hot as it ever was, and Motochika gives up on slow since that sure as hell isn’t what his cock wants anymore. Or what Mitsunari wants, the way he’s clawing at Ieyasu’s skin and swallowing his fingers and following Motochika with his eyes.

Yeah, it’s time to change things up. “Stop, Mitsunari. Leave him there and take off your clothes.”

Mitsunari obeys--of course--and Motochika slides off the barrel to looks Ieyasu over, check in with him. Aside from the ropes leaving expected livid streaks on his skin and a lot of deep scratches (but no blood), his body’s fine. Motochika kneels to get a look in Ieyasu’s eyes, takes him by the chin and taps his cheek. “How’s that atonement going?”

Ieyasu smiles, lopsided but not unsure. “Shouldn’t I be asking you, Motochika?”

All here, then. Motochika grins and gives his cheek another pat. “Guess so. Oi, Mitsunari,” he calls over Ieyasu’s shoulder, “prepare him. You know which cask the right oil’s in.”

“Yes, Lord Motochika.” Mitsunari’s made quick enough work of his clothes, and heads to a shelf in the corner, uncorks a jar. He’s definitely aroused, flushed and at attention, but Mitsunari wouldn’t notice a gunshot wound let alone an erection. It’s almost comforting to Motochika: Mitsunari’s as unselfaware as he’s always been. It’s a sign that this isn’t going poorly at all, that Motochika hasn’t gauged this wrong, that Mitsunari is on the mend and that Ieyasu’s trust wasn’t misplaced.

Trust is its own reward.

On Motochika’s explicit, step-by-step instructions, Mitsunari slicks up his fingers and stretches Ieyasu’s ass. Two to start--Ieyasu can definitely take it, and he’s begging for more with his face to the floor--and a whole lot of motion. From where Motochika’s standing, it’s plain as day that Mitsunari wants more than his fingers in there, and he can’t be conscious of how he’s rutting against Ieyasu’s thigh and the thick loops of rope or else he’d get embarrassed and stop. So Motochika doesn’t tell him, just watches and gives the orders: _there. Deeper. Curl your fingers. Just listen to him moan, listen to what you’re doing to him--_ “He wants you, Mitsunari,” Motochika says, and doesn’t make his next order a question. “Take him.”

Motochika may have forgotten to say _slow_. But he can let that order slide, if Mitsunari’s got a thirst to slake.

Mitsunari fucks Ieyasu pitilessly from the start, shoves in once and doesn’t think twice about what’s under his knees, holds Ieyasu’s hips and pounds until Ieyasu, with nothing to hold onto and no way to push back, can only force his shoulder into the floor and heave. If Motochika weren’t hosting this little experiment (and furthermore, hard as an iron spike and twice as hot), he’d be content to stare and let them wear each other out. But there’s more to it than that, and more needs to address, and Motochika wouldn’t be a good captain if he left those by the wayside.

He lets Mitsunari work himself up to a speed that’ll probably work, then grins and takes the wheel. “Stop.”

Mitsunari does. He hisses through his teeth and shouts incoherently and looks like he’d be cursing Motochika blue if Motochika were anyone else--but he stops.

So Motochika turns Ieyasu’s face up again--it’s redder than it was, a little scraped from the floorboards--and favors him with a smile. “Apology accepted, my friend,” he says, and gives Ieyasu a mouthful of cock to be thankful for--and strong thighs to brace against so Mitsunari doesn’t fuck him clean through the floor.

Oh, it’s about damn time something other than a rough right hand paid attention to Motochika’s cock. Ieyasu sucks greedily and his mouth is like a furnace, and Motochika takes a moment to himself to just rock into it and let the pleasure ride him. It shorts out his brain for a moment, long enough to forget that he hasn’t let Mitsunari start up again, and Mitsunari is still kneeling there obediently, biting his lip and bowing his head and waiting to move again.

Motochika can only guess what Mitsunari feels, under the burn and the wanting and the drive to serve. But this isn’t about guessing, it’s about knowing, and even if he doesn’t know what Mitsunari feels, damned if he doesn’t know what Mitsunari wants.

“Fuck him until you come,” he says, and that’s the last order until this is over.

It won’t take long. Motochika can’t watch, but certainly feels just how fast Mitsunari thrusts, since Ieyasu chokes and groans and struggles around Motochika’s cock. Motochika holds him by the hair and fucks him just as raw from this side, and Ieyasu’s delirious smile feels just as good from the inside as it looks from the outside. The lack of purchase doesn’t matter once there’s a rhythm, as fast as Mitsunari makes it, and Motochika falls into the fucking like a part in a well-oiled machine, easy and happy and hotter every second. Mitsunari shouts into Ieyasu’s back and comes, loud and slick, while Motochika’s still got a ways to go--

\--but Ieyasu doesn’t. He chokes on Motochika’s cock, and comes in his fundoshi, under the pressure of Mitsunari’s hand.

Well. He certainly never ordered a reacharound. Good on Mitsunari, taking matters into his own hand, so to speak. A job well done, and deserving of praise, but Motochika holds Ieyasu’s face and gives in to the rush of heat and comes before he says so. A man’s got to have his priorities.

The ship rocks beneath them, tosses gently sport to starboard. Ieyasu swallows, coughs, smiles as bright as the sun, and sits back on his haunches as much as the ropes will allow; from where Motochika’s standing, Mitsunari could almost be cradling him. He’d never, Motochika’s sure of that. But confusion is writ across Mitsunari’s face, highlighted in sweat, and Motochika knows that a job half-done isn’t well-done.

“You did well, Mitsunari,” he says. “You did yourself credit. You did _me_ credit. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you, Lord Motochika.” Mitsunari reels forward, as if he’s going to bow, but Ieyasu’s back is in the way. It startles him, hard enough that he recoils, back and to the side, as if he’s finally aware of what he’s done and how much of it was due to orders at all.

Motochika won’t let him regret this. “Mitsunari, I’ll let you choose which order to take next. You can stay and help me untie him, and then go wash up, or you can wash up now and meet me in my cabin after.” Mitsunari’s never been one for niceties and staying long after sex, but tonight may be different--and Motochika knows there are some things he oughtn’t order. He can’t make enemies be friends again: no matter how he lays the gears, they’ll never turn in the same direction. But he can--and, he hopes, has--shown them a new plan.

Mitsunari considers it for a moment, and Ieyasu, wisely, doesn’t add any conscious weight to the choice. “I’ll stay,” Mitsunari says, and steadies his hands enough to start unbinding Ieyasu’s legs.

“I’d hoped you would,” Motochika says, and joins him.

When it’s the two of them alone, Mitsunari takes orders all through the washing up and wringing out, and Motochika makes them less and less daunting until they’re back where they are on watch and on deck. With Ieyasu, there’s more to take care of--strained skin and a raw throat and a precarious relationship that neither of them is in a place to talk about, even after sex. Motochika looks Ieyasu over but has Mitsunari see to the scrapes and rope-burn, so he knows what he’s done and how much Ieyasu took. Aside from raw knees and a mess inside his head, Mitsunari doesn’t need much looking after, but no matter how hopefully Ieyasu looks at Motochika, Motochika won’t give him any orders at all.

No one can force these two to reconcile. Maybe someone could bring them to an impasse, but that’s hardly the same. And this, this isn’t reconciliation, it’s a laying of cards on a table with a short leg and a crack down the middle.

“Thank you,” Ieyasu says, regardless, while Mitsunari rubs a balm into the red marks on his thighs.

Motochika doesn’t respond.

“I don’t need you to thank me,” Mitsunari says, eyes down, teeth grit. “I was merely following orders.”

Ieyasu smiles. “Were you,” he says. It isn’t a question, so Mitsunari doesn’t answer.

“And following them well,” Motochika says, to let Ieyasu know that this isn’t the time.

But there can _be_ a time for such things, now.

And Motochika’s proud to have laid the groundwork. Can’t build a ship in a day, after all.

***


End file.
